


Putting Boxes Under the Bed

by orphan_account



Category: Muse (Band)
Genre: Horror, M/M, Murder, Nyctophobia, Tension, Thriller
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 14:19:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13483263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It's a bad habit he can't break. Until one day he does.





	Putting Boxes Under the Bed

When I was kid, I was terrified of the dark. I think I’d started watching Oxygen a bit too early, and all the wives-with-knives shit or whatever would creep into reality whenever I turned off my lights. It wasn’t all the time, though—namely, it was only the time between my lights going off and my brain finally drifting off to sleep. The simplest solution would, obviously, be to sleep with a night light—but I wasn’t a _complete_ pussy. I may have been that kid that spent recess in the library and who wore clothes just a few sizes too big, but I was still a boy, and therefore would not sleep with a night light. Besides, the reasonable solution would just to be keeping your covers on. Everyone knows that killers can’t get to you when you’ve got the covers drawn up to your chin.

That fear started to leave me by the time I hit seventh or eighth grade. I’d begun to understand the difference between reality and fiction, and films that had previously terrified me started to become more silly than scary. Once cold and nightmarish dark became a necessity for a good night’s rest.

Sometimes, throughout high school, I had the occasional nightmare, and would flick the lights on to reassure myself that it was just a dream. It always was, and the light dispelled any lingering fears that I might have had.

When I moved to a new house, I’ll admit I had a few nights with the light on, so I could get used to my new room and new furniture. I’d read somewhere when I was younger that the reason why you’re afraid of what’s under your bed is because you’re always scared of what’s behind you, and, well, the underside of your bed is what’s behind you at night. Since then, I’d always had stuff under my bed—my sister’s old books, boxes with magazines and comics, too-small clothes. But my new house had nothing under the bed, and that’s what made me scared. Probably. Or I wasn’t scared at all. I _totally_ wasn’t scared at all. I was practically a man. I’d just turned sixteen, just gotten my license, finally reached the legal age of consent. I wasn’t scared at all.

That doesn’t mean I didn’t habitually shove old shit under my bed, just so something was filling up that space.

The same thing happened when I went off to college. It took a few nights of night-lights and shoving shit under my bed for me to get comfortable. The rest of my time there, though, was fun and lighthearted. I never thought about the dark again—especially since I had someone else to sleep with. It wasn’t just anyone who shared a bed with me, though.

His name was Chris. He was taller than me, hairier, but sweeter by far. He slept with me for many nights, doing what college kids might do in a bed in the small hours of darkness. Something about his presence seemed to dispel any fears that I had. Maybe it was the heat of his body, always against my back. Or his hands, holding me tight to him. It was like he was another blanket, a reincarnation of the covers that protected me in my youth.

When we left college, we were still together. I remember that we felt like we were made to be together. My body fit perfectly with his, in every way imaginable. We were two halves of a whole, and he’d often tell me so. So much so, in fact, that he used that same line when he proposed to me.

It was on a trip to the city, when we were ice skating. Getting on one knee seemed to be a bit of a struggle for him on the ice, but it was totally worth it when I pulled him up and kissed him, realizing that we were truly about to be husbands. That night, the dark seemed warm, lit with shimmering stars. Unsure of what to do in response, months after, I got down on my own knee and proposed to him. At that moment, we decided that we were going to get married in the foreseeable future.

And get married we did—under another starry sky, and a shining full moon. It was then, as we kissed for the first time as husbands, that I realized the dark was not something to be feared, but something to be cherished.

A few years after our wedding, we had a child. ‘Had’ might not be the correct word, as she was adopted, but she was our child as much as any traditional couple’s would be. Sofia was a lively girl, four years old when she came into our life, with smooth black hair and small brown eyes. In every way, she was perfect for us, and we loved her with all our hearts.

Unlike me as a child, she was unafraid of the dark. I’d had no experience being a father, and neither had Chris, but we expected her to ask us to check for monsters under the bed or in her closet. She never did.

I didn’t think much of it. After all, not all kids are the same.

One particular night, I tucked her in, with a ‘goodnight, my love,’ and a kiss to her forehead. She gave me a smile, then turned on her side to sleep as I shut off her light.

I headed to the room I shared with Chris. We brushed our teeth and slipped out of our clothes to just our boxers, then slid under the covers. He kissed me on the head, something he’d been doing for years, then wrapped his arms around me. We had long days the next, and needed a good night’s rest.

I drifted asleep.

When I woke up, started by a noise or a dream, he wasn’t next to me. I figured that he’d gotten up to get some water—a bad habit of his was sleepwalking, as well. I didn’t pay it any mind, especially when I felt the bed sink next to me. Besides, it was only, what, two in the morning? Three? Back to sleep I went.

The next time I woke, it seemed no later. The reason itself, though, was different. Chris’ fingers were fiddling with the hair on the back of my scalp. His movements were slow, tender, but more exploratory than subconscious. Soft fingertips seemed to massage the back of my head, kneading out any bumps and ridges and tension.

It was… odd. Out of place. Especially for him.

“Chris?” I asked, voice cracking with sleep. “What’s wrong, love?”

He didn’t say anything. Just continued to massage my head.

“Baby?”

No response. The pressing seemed harder.

“Chris, stop, I wanna go back to bed.”

As if spurred on by my words, the presses became tougher. My head was almost being shoved over.

 _“Chris!”_ I snapped, whipping around as fast as I could in my half-asleep state.

My breathing hitched.

My eyes widened, fighting against the dark to decipher what I was seeing.


End file.
